


the definition of a dwarf planet

by WreakingHavok



Category: DreamSMP, SMPLive
Genre: Drunk Alexis | Quackity, Gen, Jschlatt-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Old Married Couple, Schlatt and Wilbur yell at each other in the nether instead of fixing their issues, Talent Shows, Wilbur Soot Cinematic Universe - Freeform, additional features include, no knowledge of SMPLive is needed, thats a joke but like it’s also true
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27320452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/pseuds/WreakingHavok
Summary: Looking incredibly uneasy, Wilbur does as the judges say, settling onto the stool, pulling his guitar across his chest. He shivers as he ghosts over the strings, taking a resolute breath, and then he’s strumming rhythmic chords with his eyes clenched shut.And then Wilbur sings.God, Wilbur sings, and it’s safety and it’s family, and Schlatt knows his world will never be the same.~“According to the International Astronomical Union, which sets definitions for planetary science, a dwarf planet is a celestial body that...has not cleared the neighborhood around its orbit...”
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Connor | ConnorEatsPants & Jschlatt, Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 221
Collections: Dream SMP Connected Storylines





	the definition of a dwarf planet

**Author's Note:**

> Just to preface, I headcanon the Minecraft mechanics here to be resetting just before the death blow is dealt, that way no one is gravely injured, and the only consequence is a minor version of the wound or a scar.

_But then you have to think about it  
Nobody loves them  
How must it feel to be so alone?_

~

“Ow,” Schlatt grumbles, futilely shying away from Connor’s hands. 

“Wuss,” Connor snipes back. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“You’re prying it open,” Schlatt whines. “You’re wounding me. Whatever happened to the hippocratic oath, huh?”

“Shut up, or I’ll finish what Ant started.”

Connor, no doctor by a long shot, is clearly not in the mood for jokes. Schlatt shuts up and stews in his thoughts.

It’s the third time in three days Hank’s been sent to kill him. It’s the third time three days he’s woken up tangled in the sheets of his bed, cursing the sky, nothing but a scratch to mark where the tip of the sword used to be. The hits are getting more and more aggressive, and the more time they live here, the more they have to lose. Every day is spent feeling breath on your neck and eyes on your every move, an exhausting existence, an endless cycle.

He’s getting tired of this, Schlatt thinks, hoping the heavens are listening. Someone up there has a real sick sense of humor. 

Connor passive-aggressively slaps a bandaid on Schlatt’s neck, stinging him back to the present.

“Why’re you so pissed?” Schlatt asks, frowning. “You’re not the one who died.”

Connor stops, stares him in the eyes, bright blue shining in the light of their torch, and Schlatt sees it; he’s angry at everything, he’s hungry, he’s scared, and he’s just as tired as Schlatt is. Life in this place is hell, it’s death every day, it’s watching people you love run you down and losing everything with the push of a button. Connor’s given up so much for him in their short, short friendship. There’s no reward in sticking together, yet he does it anyway. 

Today hasn’t been easy, he can almost hear Connor say. You haven’t been easy.

“Find something nice to wear,” Connor says instead of any of that. “We’ve gotta get ready for the show.”

“Hey,” Schlatt mutters, feeling a little guilty. “Thanks, man.”

“Yeah,” is all Connor says, but his hands stop pulling at his sleeves, and if Schlatt looks away, he can almost imagine he’s smiling.

~

Quackity looks terrible. 

He’s completely shitfaced drunk, hair stuck to his forehead, clothes rumpled. His hat slides up his forehead as he presses his face into Schlatt’s arm. 

“Sit up,” Schlatt orders, elbowing Quackity in the side. “Fuckin’ embarrassment.”

Quackity just snickers, eyes wide and glazed over. “Sapnap thinks it’s funny.”

Across the room, George stiffens, but keeps rifling through the medicine cabinets.

“Sapnap’s not your boss, yeah?” Schlatt says, and yanks Quackity’s beanie down over his eyes. “When do you have time to do your job if all you do is waste time with your friends?”

“Not my friends,” the Vice President says emphatically. “My only friend is you! You and George. Gogy.”

George comes back over, bandaid in hand. “Found it, sorry. Tubbo must have moved them, they weren’t where they usually were.”

“About time.” Schlatt takes it from him, perhaps too aggressively. “Alright, man. Leave us alone.”

“You’re welcome, sir, your majesty, your radiance,” George bites back, just as bitter. 

“No need to get pissy,” Schlatt calls to his retreating back. “Jesus. How hard is it to get good people, these days, huh?”

Quackity giggles. “Don’t ask me.”

“Hold still.” Schlatt grabs his face. Quackity’s eyes cross as he tries to look down at Schlatt’s hand. There’s a red scrape running down the side of Quackity’s cheek, a small portion of it beginning to bleed; Schlatt peels open the bandaid with a frustrated sigh. “How’d this happen?”

“Fell,” Quackity shrugs, looking towards the door. Schlatt curls his fingers a little tighter around his chin. Quackity winces, and adds, “after Karl pushed me.”

“Karl, huh?”

“He didn’t think I’d fall,” Quackity argues. “I didn’t think I’d fall. But fuck balance, y’know?”

“And why were you out with Karl?” Schlatt asks, pasting the bandaid on his face. It feels trivial, in the grand scheme of things, but something about it is achingly familiar. It just feels like the thing to do, no matter how exasperated he is. It feels like tradition.

Quackity hesitates, previous contentment quickly leaving his expression. “I just wanted to see them. I haven’t had a chance -”

“Tell me how you think it looks,” Schlatt says, dropping Quackity’s face, “when my Vice President gets wasted at three in the morning, clowning around with citizens of our rival country. Tell me how it looks.”

Quackity’s silent. Schlatt gives him a chilling grin. “I need an answer.”

“Bad,” he whispers. 

“Fuckin’ bad!” Schlatt leans forward. “Don’t do it again, or you’ll have worse problems than a scratch and a hangover.”

Quackity nods, jerky. “Yeah. I mean, yes. I mean, yessir.”

“Good. Go get ready for bed.” 

Quackity stands, stumbling a little. Schlatt wrinkles his nose in disgust, watching him head for the door. 

“Schlatt,” Quackity says, pausing to give him one last, sad look. It slams into him with a whirlwind of deja vu. “Thanks for the bandaid.”

Schlatt’s head feels so, so heavy. He’s thinking about the past yet again, and he’s picking at an old scar on his neck, and Quackity is still staring at him with that horrible guilty gratitude.

“Yeah,” Schlatt says, and wishes, not for the first time, that he could just forget.

~

“This is my stepladder,” Schlatt says, clearing his throat, the spotlight blinding him. His palms sweat, but he grins like this is the easiest thing he’s ever done. He knows how to be a showman. He’s getting much better at lying.

The pause stretches out. He’s about to finish the joke when Travis laughs - loud, startling, and in the judges seat beside him, Josh hesitantly follows. 

Schlatt decides that was joke enough. 

“Alright, next,” he mutters, shuffling his cards. 

He reads a few more. The bit catches on exponentially. Josh is less enthusiastic than his fellow judges, but soon the whole audience is giggling. At one point, someone cackles so loudly he looks up in surprise, catching the back end of a new kid’s embarrassed hiccup.

What’s his name? William? Wilbur? Good enough. 

“Where there’s a will,” he intones, and leans closer to the mic without breaking eye contact. 

The kid chuckles, more reassured this time. He’s got wild hair barely trapped under a beanie, a yellow sweater, boots. He’s dressed for cold weather. Schlatt idly wonders why - it’s always hot as hell, to him.

After his time on the stage, he spaces in and out of everyone else’s talents. It’s a fun time, a welcome break from the usual tension surrounding their community. Hits have been lifted for this event, and as a result, no one’s looking behind their shoulders or twitching for a weapon. It would be nice to live like this all the time.

“Wilbur, hey,” Travis calls, after everyone on the schedule has taken their turn. He turns in his chair. “Don’t you sing?”

From the audience, Wilbur makes an uncertain noise. “Well, I -”

“You even brought your guitar,” Josh gestures. Schlatt follows his hand and sure enough, the black instrument case is settled next to Wilbur.

Wilbur sighs. “I guess I did.”

“Go on,” Josh says, not a suggestion.

Looking incredibly uneasy, Wilbur does. He settles onto the stool, pulling his guitar across his chest. He shivers as he ghosts over the strings, taking a resolute breath, and then he’s strumming rhythmic chords with his eyes clenched shut.

And then Wilbur sings. 

God, Wilbur sings, and it’s safety and it’s family, and Schlatt knows his world will never be the same.

~

“You know,” Wilbur says, “I thought you might come here.”

The nether is hot. Schlatt is used to it, but still he’s uncomfortably warm in his traditional suit and tie. He comes here to think, away from the people of this country. No one bothers you in hell.

Wilbur steps into view from behind a red, rocky wall, beanie pulled over his ears. His trench coat looks like it’s seen better days, and the fingers of his gloves have worn away. He’s dirty, bags under his eyes, hair tangled; for all that, he looks content. 

“Where’d you get that outfit?” Schlatt sneers, hating him for it. “Good-”

“-will,” Wilbur finishes dryly. “You should get better jokes.”

“You used to like them well enough.”

Wilbur is infuriatingly calm about standing two meters away from his sworn enemy. Schlatt scans the surroundings for any sign of Techno or the kids, but none are apparent. Either it’s an excellent ambush, or Wilbur truly came alone.

Instead of responding, Wilbur walks to the hastily built railing and leans over it, peering at the oxymoronic ice paths snaking into the red haze. “Sam did most of this, I think. Isn’t it impressive?”

Schlatt growls. “What do you want, Wilbur?”

“Nothing on ours, of course,” Wilbur giggles, actually giggles - a far cry from the man who had declared war on Dream, flashing Schlatt back to a time when they both weren’t so old. “They’re missing my whale, up in that corner. I’d build it up there. And this time, I’d charge more. Never say you didn’t teach me anything.”

“Oh, please. You flatter me.” It occurs to Schlatt he could push Wilbur over the railing right here and now to escape this horrific conversation. His stomach churns with every word out of Wilbur’s mouth. It must be the sulfur. “I’ll ask again. What do you want?”

“You know what I want,” Wilbur shrugs. “I’ve been clear about it from the start.”

“You want me dead,” Schlatt says. “You want me dead, but good luck with that. I’ve been killed before.”

“What?” Wilbur laughs. Why is he laughing so much? “No! No, you really don’t know, do you?”

“Spit it out,” Schlatt barks, threateningly stepping forward. 

Wilbur straightens up, grinning, looming over him from so close. Schlatt had forgotten he was taller. “I want you to _lose_.” He draws it out, savoring each syllable. 

Lose. Schlatt barks a rancid laugh into Wilbur’s face, and nothing ever fucking changes, does it? It’s always been a game, to him. They crash into each other, dwarf planets on collision course, stars rigged to blow and reform and blow and reform, and it’s nothing but playtime, and Wilbur wants him to fucking _lose_. 

“I never lose,” Schlatt shouts -

“You have,” Wilbur interrupts, “is the thing! You’ve lost, you’ve been destroyed, but you clawed your way back, remember?” 

Schlatt bares his teeth, lowers his head and squares his stance. Of course he remembers banishment, the awful void of nothing. Of course he remembers what happens in between the sword touching skin and waking up in sweat-soaked sheets. Of course he remembers - he’ll never forget. 

“Why?” Wilbur laughs, taking a step even closer, his breath on Schlatt’s forehead. “Why come back? What was so troubling you just had to return?”

Schlatt stumbles into the railing. “Get away from me -”

“What was it, huh? What did you want, huh?” Wilbur crows, hands waving wildly. “You wanted me to lose, too! We’re the same, aren’t we? You know it! I know it! That’s why you’ve chased me here, that’s why we’re doing this, because I want you to lose, and -”

“No,” Schlatt yells, frustrated and lightheaded with anger, slamming a hand into Wilbur’s chest, and -

“What do you want, huh?” and -

“Shut up!” and -

“What do you want?” and -

“Stop,” Schlatt shouts, and - 

“What do you fucking want?” Wilbur screams, and -

And they are standing face to face for the first time in three lifetimes, and all Schlatt can think about is that stupid beanie and the cold and the heat and the past and bandaids, and kids that deserved better and kids he ordered to die, and betrayal and laughter and nights lit by lava just like this, and when he throws his arms out and roars, “I WANT YOU TO SING AGAIN,” the very air _cracks_ under it.

Wilbur is frozen. Dead eyes widened. Hands gripping the railing like the neck of something wooden, something alive. 

“I want,” Schlatt says.

“I,” it breaks. 

“I wish,” it’s angry, full of pain he’s never let himself feel.

“I wish you would just sing again.”

Wilbur isn’t breathing.

It’s so fucking hot.

Schlatt moves slowly, in little shattered pieces; first he shuts his mouth, then his hands to wipe away the cinders gathering in the corners of his eyes, then his feet, inching backwards, until the heat of the portal is searing his horns.

“I don’t sing like that anymore,” Wilbur calls. He’s pale, fingernails digging into his palms, and shaking so badly his voice cracks. 

“I know,” Schlatt says, weighty and bitter. “If you did, we wouldn’t be here.”

Wilbur takes a step away from the railing.

“You’re shaking,” Schlatt says.

“I’m cold,” Wilbur says. “I’m so cold.”

Schlatt takes the final step into the portal, feeling it burn the hair on his skin. 

“You always were,” he whispers, and the fire consumes him.

**Author's Note:**

> it goes:   
> Smplive  
> Pre-festival  
> Smplive  
> Post-festival


End file.
